


Hope

by Combination_NC



Series: Fortune [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con References, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Combination_NC/pseuds/Combination_NC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders considers a different sort of escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any awkward grammar, I would appreciate it if you would let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings: This really is not a happy fic. It contains references to non-con situations, and is a rather in-depth description of someone's mental breakdown and suicide attempt. The planning and execution is described in detail.**

Now that his magic has returned he is able to heal himself and with the tears and scratches closed he does feel better, but not _good_. He has been in solitary for so long it feels as if he is covered with a layer of grease, dirty and sticky. The water is not hot enough to make him feel clean and so he heats it with magic. He might not be proficient enough to rain down fireballs on every templar in creation, but heating water is something he can do. He makes it uncomfortably hot and submerge completely, head and all. With his eyes closed he tries to imagine being somewhere else – in the lake, swimming under the surface, soon to emerge, soon to come ashore, able to escape once more and perhaps be able to  _stay_ escaped this time. He is planning his next attempt – the time he spends in the Circle is nothing more than time spent waiting for the next opportunity. He might have people to amuse himself with and studies to complete, but there is nothing that can distract him from his goal. Attachments in here are dangerous, and the unfairness of it is a constant ache in his chest.

And despite his healing magic other parts of him are aching as well. Every part that the templar touched. Aching, and somehow dirty. He returns to the surface in search of soap, and he scrubs and scrubs and reheats the water until it almost burns, and scrubs even more until there is no soap left. The feeling of being covered in something dirty remains, and in one last desperate effort to get rid of it he tries to scratch the feeling away, too much skin gettingcaught under his nails during the attempt. And after a while, with patches of skin much thinner than it should be stinging in the too hot water, he does feel slightly better. But he does not leave the tub until forced.

 

The days pass in a haze afterwards. He should enjoy being let out more, but everything either feels to cramped or too spacious. Either he is suffocating from the feeling of walls being too close, or nervous at being looked at by so many eyes – there are so many eyes in the sleeping quarters and the classrooms and the hall where they take their meals and he feel like every last pair of them _knows_. They do not, of course, not all of them. But some do. Some look at him knowingly. Some with pity, others recognizing a fellow sufferer. And he cannot stand it. He is supposed to be _fun_ , fun and daring, the resident escape artist, a troublemaker, a constant thorn in the templars side, not someone who people looks at with pity in their eyes, not someone who is frightened in the library because the shelves are too close and too many others are present, not someone who is skittish in the hallways and flinches at the heavier steps of the male templars, not someone who wakes in the middle of the night to sheets drenched in cold sweat, not someone who gives in to silent tears in the dark. He loathes it, the need to cry. The need to curl up into a ball under the sheets, trying to make himself as small as possible. The need to hide in the lower bunk, pretending the others aren ot there. He cannot stand being around all these people. He cannot stand himself. It is definitely time to leave.

  
Opportunities to escape does not arise often. He is on constant lookout for them, ready to take any chance that may appear. So when there is a barrel to stow away in he does so, even though the cramped space makes him ill at ease. All he has to do is remember how to breath and be quiet, to fight the rising panic. If this works, he will be out, and it will be worth it.

  
So far it is working. The barrel, heavier than usual, is carried to the boat to the mainland without anyone noticing him. He is probably travelling with a shipment of enchanted things the Tranquil are forced to make. The thought of them makes him shudder. He knows that him ending up like one of them is a possibility if he keep making trouble, but so far he has not been punished with anything worse than lashes and solitary. The thought of a punishment worse than solitary is almost too horrible to imagine, but sometimes he does. To never _feel_ anything again, good or bad – he would rather die. Cut off from the Fade and all mortal emotions completely… he is not able to understand how someone would choose that, that some of the Tranquil has chosen to become what they are. He has always been deeply unsettled by them, the too smooth movements, the impassive faces and monotone voices. He does not want to think about them, really, but he needs to think about something other than the barrel he is in. The smell of it, its walls touching him, the uncomfortable floor and stale air. There is enough of it seeping in through the cracks that he will not suffocate, but he still has trouble breathing. It is too cramped, too confined, reminding him of solitary. The smell is different, though, and he tries to focus on that. It smells slightly of tar. Tar. Like ships. He should get to the coast, find a ship. Sit on the deck, out in the open air, surrounded by the sea. Fresh, salty air he can almost taste now – or is that his tears? The world is spinning and he feel as if he is going to faint, but as long as he can keep quiet and unnoticed, nothing else matters.

  
He waits for a long time after the sounds of the camp has settled before he does anything. When he is certain only the guard keeping watch is awake he slips out of the barrel as quietly as possible, careful not to get noticed. He is fortunate the beasts of burden are not quite asleep yet. Their snorts and small movements are loud enough to conceal his steps as he hurries away from the camp. His legs and back hurt from being curled up in the barrel for so long and he is still feeling slightly faint from the ordeal of spending all that time in something so small, but now that he has fresh air in his lungs it does not matter anymore. He can smell grass and trees and hear birds singing their good nights to the last daylight, and no templars are watching him, and that makes it all worth it. When he gets a bit further away he’s going to remove his boots and walk barefoot in the grass, finally being able to feel the earth beneath him.

  
It does not last long, of course. They find him like they always do, this time lying on his back in the grass, watching the stars, too tired to move. He knew deep down that outrunning templars on horseback with no provisions and on foot was not likely to succeed, support spells or not. He does not fight back when they shackle him, berate him, and throw him across one of their horses. He does not have the strength for anything but being relieved that the templar who visited him in solitary is not in the group that will bring him back.

  
The closer they get to the tower, the more his stomach twists in fear. Maybe this had not been such a great idea after all. He should have waited until he had a better plan to make the risk of getting caught smaller. He does not regret it, because those moments of freedom are what is keeping him alive. But they might stick him in solitary again, where that templar can easily visit him should he wish to. And there is no point in telling anyone, because if no one has done anything for any of the others this has happened to, why should they for him? He is a troublemaker, and surely everyone knows of his hatred for the templars by now – they probably would not even believe him. If he tells, he does not have the faintest hope of the templar getting flogged for his crime. He would probably be lucky to escape a harsh punishment for telling such lies. And he does not even know the name of the templar, any way. The only thing he can hope for is not having to meet him again. He wish that he could stop dwelling on it, stop having nightmares about it. It was not as if he had been some blushing virgin, it was nothing he had not done before. He wished that the word _no_ did not make all the difference in the world.

  
His eyes has trouble focusing when he is being dragged to the First Enchanter’s office, one templar on each side, everything blurring together in a haze. The stone is grey, the templars are grey, all the mage robes in muted colours. How can a place this spacious feel so suffocating? The ceiling is miles away, but the air is stale and the stone around them heavy. And it’s too quiet. Just steps, new and echoes of old, as well as hushed whispers. The world outside has wind in the trees and the sounds of animals, of wagons passing by, of ripples of brooks and the quiet thumps of bare feet on grass. Music, and song. And he is supposed to be locked up in here, for as long as he lives? Some of the good mages are taken out of the tower at times, but he knows that he will never be one of them. He does not _want_ to be what the templars would consider a good mage. He is not going to just give up and roll over and submit to their rules. How can they expect him to give up his whole life due to something that happened a thousand years ago? How can they expect that of anyone? How can anyone agree to having their freedom taken away like this? He tries to suppress his rage, because there is no use in screaming at these templars. There’s no use in screaming at anyone all. Nothing is likely to change in here – the only option is to get out.

When they hand him over to Irving, he is pondering the options for his next escape, because he is _not_ going to spend his entire life in here.

  
He is, however, going to spend some time in solitary. His knees goes weak at the proclamation, and if not for the templars he might have fallen.

“No”, he tries, “No no no no no, _please_ no.”

Irving just sighs. “It is for your own good, Anders.”

Good? There is nothing good about it. He is not just dreading the cramped darkness anymore.

“Well, can I just have female guards, then? Assigned to me at all times?” He tries to make the comment sound flippant, like he is joking, but it comes out broken and desperate.

Maybe Irving understands or maybe he does not, but his face does soften slightly although only for a short moment. But he is dragged down to the cells anyhow.

  
Locked away in the dark, propped up against the farthest wall, he tries to collect his thoughts. It feels like his mind in vibrating, and focus is difficult. They did not hit him in the head as far as he can remember, so that is not likely to be the cause. He would like to believe that it is not fear. He has not done well with tight spaces since his first round in solitary, and he suspect that is why they put him here so frequently. They could just flog him, but no, he has to endure an entire week down here. Like a misbehaving child told to go sit in a corner. He is brought meals, but no one talks to him and he cannot bathe in here. If only they had let him wash up before putting him here, he would at least feel less disgusting. But perhaps smelling bad is not such a bad thing – if _that_ templar shows up and thinks he smells too awful to touch, he might be left alone. He clings to the fragile hope of that possibility.

  
The hours turn to days and nights, and the only way to keep track of time is counting the meals. He is not hungry, too busy with fighting back panic, but he eats it all in case he will need the strength to fight off a templar later. He knows that he is not likely to succeed, but he is determined to at least put up a good fight this time. The templar was stronger, but if he had not given up as easily as he did, surely he would feel better now.

 

He is always listening for heavy footsteps. Sometimes he can hear armour clink, the guard shifting at her post outside. He heard her voice when she relieved the previous guard – also a woman. Irving understood, then. But this is all he is going to do about it. No one has asked him anything, no questions about who and when. Like it does not matter. They might say that this, locking them up in a tower is for their own protection and their own good, but they make no effort to protect them from things inside the tower, do they? The number of mages that decides to take their own lives each year is proof of that. As far as he knows, that number is greater than the number of mages that turn to blood magic. You do not usually walk into the apprentice quarters and find abominations, but every now and then you get to see someone that has decided to turn a knife to their throat. It is not uncommon but it is ignored, not seen as a problem. The bastards are probably glad to be rid of them. He wants to accuse them, scream at them, make them answer – but it is no use. No one will listen, and all the effort will give him is a sore throat.

  
Some time after his sixteenth meal he can hear heavy footsteps, much heavier than those of all his previous guards. A deep voice in conversation with a softer, and then steps again, turning away. No one opens the cell door. It is not until he has been sitting in silence and loneliness for a long time that he realise that he is shaking. Which makes no sense, because he is _angry_ , not _afraid_.

  
He does not know which is worse; feeling the whole tower above and around him, or the lack of sounds. Every now and then he can hear a guard, but no other voices, and apart from his own breaths there is no life down here. It is not exactly _lively_ higher up in the tower either, but at least there he is not alone. There he would have something or someone to distract him from thoughts of invasive templar hands, of getting pressed down on the hard floor, of physical hurt. It still hurts, even though it should not. He chews on his lips until they bleed, because at least that is his own hurt, his choice, and not something forced upon him.

  
Being let out should be a welcome relief, but being led up the stairs he feel as if he is somehow still trapped, but inside his own head. Disconnected and disoriented, he stumbles, something hits his arm with a loud crack, but he does not feel it. Is that good or bad? If he had been like this when the templar entered his cell, it might have been a good thing, but now he is not sure.

He does not really feel the bath water, either. Is it too hot or too cold? His body is too numb. It is not until he has immersed himself completely in the water, staying under the surface for so long that his lungs starts to burn that his body really remembers how to feel anything at all.

  
It is not just his physical sense that is dulled. Somehow his sense of time is affected as well, everyone around him moving at a different speed. They are quick, and he is wading through treacle, the air thicker than usual in his lungs. Once, he manages to completely lose a huge chunk of it, suddenly sitting against the corridor wall and hyperventilating with no idea of how he ended up there. Karl is there, rubbing his shoulder and asking him things he does not have an answer to. But all he needs to know right now is that Karl is there, and that he is not alone.

  
The days slowly get better after that. He is starting to feel more, feel better, and the air is getting easier to breathe. It all comes crashed down in a corridor where he hears the voice of his nightmares say, “I see they let you out, little mage.”

The templar removes his gauntlet and gently touch his cheek, and Anders knees goes weak from the shock, and he forgets how breathing works. That hand is disgusting, with its thumb parting his lips. He wants to be nothing but angry, but his insides are stirring with fear as well.

“You should learn your place”, the templar says. “We will always find you. Always bring you back.”

Anders tries to back away, and is immediately and roughly pressed up against the nearest wall. And that hurts, but not as much as the knowledge that the templar is right does. They _will_ always find him, as long as they have his phylactery. They are such hypocrites, practising blood magic themselves. One time for each mage in this cursed place.

“The next time we will not be so lenient.” The hand is wandering down towards his hip. “If you keep refusing to be good… It is only a matter of time before you are made Tranquil.”

At first the blood freeze in Anders veins, causing him to lose focus. He has not gone through his Harrowing yet, so while the risk is still there, his affinity for healing magic makes him valuable. He should be safe, shouldn’t he? Surely the templar is only using the threat of it to intimidate him. And that finally makes him more furious than fearful. He uses that rage as a focus, and bites down at the templars thumb, hard. Kicking is not much use when the chain mail skirt is still on but biting is enough to get loose, and it’s easier to run fast in robes than full armour.

  
He is panting hard, desperately searching for Karl. If nothing else, the templar might not risk approaching him when he is not on his own, and there is an amount of safety and comfort to be found in Karl’s arms. It is not love, that feeling too much of a risk in the Circle, but during his escapes Karl is the person that he miss the most, and he wish that they could be free together. He has done what he can to make that dream reality, asking him to _come with me, please_ between kisses and during touches before escape attempts, but it is not to be. But they will have the time in here, at least.

  
“Tell me.” Karl attempts to make him talk, but Anders does not quite know how it is done. He is content with just lying next to him, having his hair stroked. _Content_ is the best thing he can hope for in the tower, and it never lasts for long. He does not want to spoil one of the few moments of it he has.

  
The threat of Tranquillity hangs over him, slowly pressing him down, the weight getting heavier for each day, heavy like the tower and worse. It can not have been a serious threat. If it was, then there is no hope unless he can get to his phylactery. If he does not destroy if before he makes his next escape he will be found quickly. And if the templar spoke the truth, he would be better off biting his tongue on the way back to the tower.

  
He does not know when the possibility becomes an inevitability in his head. He does not usually meet the tranquil all that often, but these days he seem to be running in to them with alarming frequency. Templars are always everywhere, and with their helmets on, impossible to tell apart. Any templar he sees could be _that_ templar. That templar could be standing in the library, patrolling the hallways, watching over him while he eats and guarding the quarters where he sleeps. He could be anywhere, looking for him, looking at him.

  
He is not sure of exactly when he starts to imagine that every templar he sees is that templar.

   
Part of him knows, _should_ know, that the templar he fears the most cannot be everywhere at once, but a larger part cannot escape the thought that perhaps he is.

  
The food in the Circle is not usually anything special, but lately it does not taste anything at all. He tries to read but is unable to focus, the words floating together in a haze. Trysts are no longer any fun, and when anyone but Karl tries to touch him he becomes repulsed and afraid, memories of much larger hands eating away at is mind that might be falling to pieces. Karl is concerned when he stops laughing and making jokes completely. But what is the point in jokes when he is going to die here? When the templars are just waiting for an excuse to rip the soul out of his body? And then he will die as someone else, someone not quite him, someone just wearing his body like a shell.

  
One day he realise that he would rather die as _himself_.

  
He thinks about when he tried to escape through the lake a lot. How free he had felt then, in the middle of the lake where no templars could follow him. Lately that memory is his happiest one, replacing the one of Karl’s arms around him for the first time. They could not get to him there. And if he where to get out there again, and just let himself sink… then they would never be able to get to him.

  
He begin to look after lose stones in the walls and floors after that. With the castle so old, it is not an impossible task. He can not gather too many at once, and not when anyone can see him. He does not want to rise any suspicion. But the pile in the chest where he is allowed to keep a few possessions is growing.

   
The decision grants him a strange sense of calm and the collecting of stones distracts him from the templars. Avoiding them is a game now, gaining more stones unnoticed his prize. Perhaps it would be easier to sneak into one of the higher levels of tower to find a window and jump. Quicker, at least. But this is how he wants it, slow preparations and then to rest at the bottom of the lake.

  
One day, he finally has enough stones. And one night, he gathers them all to stuff his robes with.

  
Getting out of the tower itself is the most difficult part, but since he will not have to worry about pursuers this time he climbs up to break a stained glass window that would have been beautiful, had it not been there to keep him inside this place, and jumps out. When he is hurt in the fall, he is thankful for his ability to heal. Perhaps it is unnecessary at this point in his life, but it makes it easier to reach the water quickly. And he wants to reach it as quickly as possible, to descend beneath the waves.

The water is cold when it seeps into his boots and robes, making them grow heavy. He starts to swim but it is hard when both clothes and stones are weighing him down. But this is the last thing he will ever do, and he is going to do it properly.

He has not even been able to cover half of the distance before he can hear a commotion behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms his fear – they have already discovered him, and are getting out a small boat. And since they are not all in armour, they will be able to drag him out. He can feel panic rising in his throat. He is not as far out as he wanted to be, but maybe it will have to do, because otherwise he’ll be caught and made tranquil. Dying here is better. After a few more strokes, he let himself sink.

  
It is nothing like when he went under last time. This is on purpose, and that makes it different. No panic, and no fear. Until he starts to breathe in water he can only feel relief.

But with water in his lungs his body starts to fight back. Unlike the rest of him, it still retains an instinct for life. He tries to force himself to sink, to stop struggling towards the surface, to let his collection of stones guide him downwards. He is close to succeeding when he can feel a presence next to him, and suddenly a strong arm grabs hold of him.

  
Coughing up water on the floor of the small boat, he tries not to listen as a voice rants at him about how lucky he was to be rescued. He is not lucky, and he did not want to be rescued. At least they will not notice his tears since he is wet all over.

“Idiot robe. Did you actually think you could escape this way again?”

Yes. And for good, this time.

He wants to curl up on his side and weep in peace, but the templar grips his chin to force his face upwards, intent on berating him to his face. There is no point in trying to tell him that he was not trying to escape, because they are not going to believe him. And he does not want them to know what he was trying to do, either.

  
When he steps out of the boat, what he wants no longer matters. One of the templars push him in an effort to make him hurry up, and he falls forward into the one in front of him, the rocks in his robes hitting the armour with an audible _clang_. He tries not to scream as the man who dragged him out of the water starts to search him, quickly finding some of the stones.

“I thought you were heavier than you should be…” He let the stones fall to the ground.

The templar in front of him laughs cruelly. “That is not how you do it, mage. Slit your wrists next time, you robes are good at that.”

The reference to blood magic makes him sick. He does not want to do anything that reminds him of it. No, he will bite his tongue instead. That is at least better than being made Tranquil.

   
This time, he sees no point in holding his head high on the way to Irving’s office. Before, he used to have hope. Not now. But he still have his anger, and when one of the armoured templars start to recite his latest wrongdoings, breaking a window and _escaping_ , he is unable to contain it.

“You _know_ I was not!” He tries to make the accusation as sharp as possible. “You know that is not what I was doing!” Readying himself to scream and perhaps throw some of the remaining rocks at some of the especially hideous décor in the office, he almost does not register the reply.

“What?”

“Then what were you doing, apprentice?”

With shaking hands, he begin to retrieve rocks from his hidden pockets.

  
It is not what he would have expected. They will not make him Tranquil, and they are not going to throw him in solitary either. He is allowed to change into dry robes, and he is made to visit Senior Enchanter Wynne.

By the time dawn arrives he is back at the apprentices' quarters, unharmed. Karl is waiting for him. And when his escort has left, he wraps his arms around him. “Let me help you.” He whisper in his ear.

Anders decides to try.


End file.
